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With the holidays approaching (and with them, the birthdays of most of George’s little friends), I’ve been waist-deep in production and all the stuff that comes with it. Trying to figure out what to make. Pick fabric. Choose trims. Do it right. And once it’s made, hope the recipient likes what I’ve done. Anyone who handmakes gifts has made something that was poorly received. My own favorite story — the word ‘favorite’ being a relatively recent development, as the multi-level bummer finally wore off — is of making something for someone who probably thought she was being tactful by tasking someone else with the chore of asking me for the gift’s receipt. Whether I should’ve taken the fact that the thing passed for storebought is the only possible positive of the whole deal, because when the middle-woman asked for the receipt, she turned what may have otherwise been a somewhat laughable oh-haha-err-awkward! situation into a fight. “It’s HOMEMADE?! What were you thinking? You should’ve just gotten her NOTHING. Can you at least get her a real present now?” Seriously. If you will, dear reader, please imagine my response and make it as — ahem — colorful as you’d like.

Regardless of how shitty that lady was, the sting of disappointment is harsh when you’ve worked hard on something that isn’t well received. It can feel like a personal affront; your choices and efforts are entrenched much deeper in a handmade present than one bought in a store. And sometimes that fact falls on deaf ears…or into unappreciative hands.

When I was pregnant with George, I told my mother — a longtime smoker — that she could not continue to smoke and have a relationship with my child. As a child myself, my parents’ smoking was a constant embarrassment and nuisance. Like when you give someone a homemade gift (George is, afterall, about as homemade as gifts get), the gift my mom got in her grandson was not customizable after-the-fact or exchangeable for another size or color. But the gift she got was good. The only appropriate reaction, in my book, is akin to mine when I was given my first, beautiful handknitted wool sweater: what do I have to do to keep this gift as perfect as it was the day I got it?

My mother’s reaction was… not that. Over the past year and a half, she has lied about giving up smoking, told me the cigarettes in front of her weren’t hers, insisted the smell on her clothes wasn’t smoke, and snuck away during Thanksgiving festivities to light up in the bathroom, bringing with her upon her return a foul stench that required my entire family to bathe when we got home. Before we could collapse into bed with a tired infant whose sling also reeked of cigarettes, who was exposed to third-hand smoke for an entire day. And that was my last straw.

I love my mother. We have our issues, most of which revolve around situations just like this one, wherein she has sold me out in favor of someone or something more important to her. But there will be no selling out of my kid, and I didn’t hesitate for one hot second when I called to say we’d made it home through the snow to add that until she stops smoking, she will not have the privilege of seeing George. Because she’s setting a bad example. And even if you don’t believe the studies about third-handsmoke, I’m pretty sure we can all agree that a baby should not smell like cigarettes.

I wish I could say that my mom’s reaction was a hearty hey-whatever-it-takes-because-I-love-that-kid. But it wasn’t. And my feeling was similar to the one you get as you watch your friend or family member’s face go from I’m-opening-a-present-this-rules! to ummm, WTF? when they peel back the tissue paper on your homemade table runner and matching napkin rings. But, like I’ve had to do with people who felt my gifts missed the mark, I’m letting go of my mom’s complete lack of appreciation for what she’s been given. If she chooses to throw it out, that’s entirely up to her.

One of our little favorites had a birthday party this afternoon. I wanted to make her something that would be useful for longer than most baby toys. Something that could grow with her, not be annoying or take up too much space. Somewhere, a long time ago, I ran across a blog post about making little bean bags, but I think the ones pictured were letters. 26 bags was a project too ambitious for me at the moment, and letter blocks are easy enough to come by, in any case. I decided to make, instead, a set of numbers, zero through nine. Good for tossing around now, practicing math later. I just hope my shoddy stitch-up job holds until she’s ready for addition and subtraction. I hate to sew “in the ditch” so they look very homemade.

Oh well; they are.

To make them, I used felt scraps and freehanded the numbers, used quilting cotton scraps in interesting or pretty patterns for the backs, and white fleece for the fronts. The synthetic fleece isn’t my ideal material, but I wanted something kind of tactile and substantial. Also, I had some lying around. The truth comes out!

I used cheap, nutritionally void white rice for the filling. Lentils would also be nice, or popcorn. They’re not all the same size and they’re admittedly a little wonky, but I think they’ll be fun to play with. Once George gets out of his mouthing phase, I’ll probably make him some, too. For this project, all I had to buy was the rice; if you’re a sewer, you can probably do the same, as these don’t necessitate any particular material other than hole-less (and if you’re mainly sewing with mesh, I’m gonna bet you don’t have children).

We’re lucky enough to live in a house where, in the far back of the property, blackberry bushes grow undeterred all Summer long. Some might not call this luck. In fact, some might gripe about how they have to get a new weedeater to combat the attempted take-over of the garden and back fence. The same person(s) might be eating some words…and some jam, right about now.

I used a combination of the directions found inside the pectin package and those found here.

I got the no sugar needed type of pectin and sweetened the jam with some really nice raw honey that my mom gave us. It is outrageous. Perfectly sweet and honey-tasty but still a little tart.

George hung out (pun intended, har har) in the sling while I cooked and canned and Nathan photodocumented. He was unimpressed.

We shared a slice of toast with some butter and the last bit of jam left in the pot after I’d filled the jars. This Fall and Winter it will be so good on our oatmeal and kasha (and bread, and by the spoonful).

I didn’t bother with the canning-specific pot you’re “supposed” to have and just used our giant stockpot which seems to have worked; my lid buttons are sucked in and the stuff has set. A tip I read, though, which was heartening when I decided to try jam-making: if it doesn’t set or your lid buttons don’t pop down, you can re-make the same batch or just put the jam in the fridge or freezer and it’ll keep.

The breakdown:
4 cups of berries (harvested throughout the Summer and frozen) = free
1 cup of honey = gift from mom
1/4 cup of sugar = we’ll say .50, just to be generous. It’s organic, but that’s still probably an overestimate.
1 package of no sugar needed pectin = 2.39
mason jars and lids = already had
jam funnel thing = .99
TOTAL = 3.88. For three jars! Awesome! Is my math right? Who cares.

This was way easier than I thought it would be and only took a little over an hour from start to finish. I also got exactly the flavor I wanted and know exactly from where all my ingredients came. I’m stoked to take on my next canning project: green tomato, ginger and vanilla jam. I know, it sounds gross.

In the past few weeks, the weather has taken the most wonderful Autumnal turn. I feel like this is possibly happening earlier than usual, and is the universe’s polite way of saying please, for the love of god, stop wearing those stretched out tank tops. George’s current legging collection can no longer contain his fat little thighs and all the pants I made him a couple of months ago are too tight around the bum. With a new crop of t-shirts recently acquired, all he really needed for Fall were some snuggly pants. My mom’s boyfriend gave me a very generous birthday gift of money to be spent at Joann, and with it I’ve gotten started on a few things that I hope will carry this little butterball through until December, when it’ll be time to bust out the fleece.

Exhibit A:

Some birch-printy, black flannel-lined pants that are notably less clownish than what he’s been sporting all summer.

Exhibit B:

Some navy flannel-lined overalls with wooden buttons, modeled after some that a dear friend and amazing seamstress made for George that he has, regrettably, worn twice and outgrown.
I didn’t use a pattern for either, having made so many things like this for him already, but I’m still always surprised when a project turns out so nicely.

Okay, so it was actually yesterday afternoon and “saved my life” might be hyperbolic. But this tutorial for making your own mei tai just gifted me (with some work on my part) my very most favorite thing I’ve ever made, ever in my whole long life of making things.
I love my Ergo. Previously, I may have said that it saved my life. And that would only be slightly hyperbolic, because when you have a baby like George, who wants you to hold him every second of every minute of every day, you find that occasionally you need your hands no matter how pleasant holding you baby may be. That Ergo has allowed me to pee, to check Facebook when George was, in the beginning, what we lovingly refer to as a blob, and most importantly, it sometimes puts him to sleep. We use it multiple times a day for walks and picking up around the house and giving a nap the old college try. I’m not giving up on my Ergo. But it’s just so…black. And Beige. With giant clips and padding and that swirly logo that treads dangerously close to hippy territory. I wanted something jazzier. Yellow. Flowers? YES! I am not a flowers type of gal (gal — check), but this fabric seemed right to me. So, with $16, two Joann coupons, a bit of brown minkee fabric I had lying around the sewing room and about 3 hours, I have this little number.

Okay, I am officially obsessed with this pants pattern.
They are perfect for sitting around,
for lounging on mama,
for “tummy time” (oh how I hate that phrase please oh please someone give me an alternative), and, of course,
for modeling. I just made ANOTHER pair, but I will spare you the photos. Probably.

George’s six month well child check is today, replete with shots. I figured nothing softens the blow of unexpected pain and the corresponding confusion like a new outfit, right?! So, last night, I tried another pattern from Anna Maria Horner’s book Handmade Beginnings. Like the other two projects I’ve made from this book, the quick change trousers turned out super cute and made up quickly. They’re fully reversible which I could not love more and the back yoke detail is simple but adds a lot of interest to what would otherwise be really plain pants.
(In the morning light George is so pale he looks like he’s glowing. Wonder where he gets that.)
They are undeniably hippy pants, but I love all the fabrics I used and I know I’ll be sad when I have to pack them away for the next baby.
Now we just need to hop the ferry to Orcas for a little hippy vacation.